


Hot Cider Special

by chewysugar



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cameras, Christmas, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, F/M, Love, Masturbation, Sex Tapes, Texting, Vaginal Fingering, sexy photos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: MJ arrives home after a hard day at work to find that Peter left her a very sexy surprise.





	Hot Cider Special

For Mary Jane Watson, the only signs of anything resembling comfort and joy came in the form of text messages from the man she loved. Otherwise she didn’t want to hear a peep about tidings of goodwill and peace on Earth. Because in the land of coffee shop employment, it was abundantly clear that no such thing existed.  
  
Yelled at twice, hit on more times than she could shake a stick at, and summarily told that she’d have to work an extra hour and a half because her colleague had experienced a crippling panic attack while emptying the garbage and gone home—the only way the entire picture could have been anymore poetic was if she’d been working a Christmas Eve shift.  
  
But that was two nights from now; and as senior staff, MJ had managed to book it, and the following day, off. It was the only thing carrying her through yet another trophy wife berating her for the regrettable fact that the hot apple cider she’d ordered tasted more like boiled apple juice—which, MJ was itching to point out, it actually was.  
  
_Keeping talking sister_ , MJ thought as she smiled—or rather showed her teeth—to the bottle blonde, _and I’ll pour that boiled apple juice where the sun don’t shine and then some._  
  
She’d told herself only a year of this when she’d landed the gig. Her naivety at thinking acting would pan out for her in that amount of time astounded her. It was now a year and nine months on, and all she had to show for it was being the third victim in a C-list horror movie, a renewed smoking habit and a hatred for the smell of coffee.  
  
Well...not just that.  
  
Her phone, in the pocket of her black jeans, had been vibrating ever since she’d told the one good thing in her life about the downward spiral her day had taken during her long-distant break. Of course, given the endless stream of hipsters, caffeine fiends and office folk that had stampeded in two hours before closing, MJ hadn’t had a moment to so much as glance at any of Peter’s messages. As a result, her temper—always one live wire away from an explosion—had been simmering at a low three. And now, what with Soccer Mom Number Two still acting righteously indignant, MJ was about ready to punch something.  
  
Fortunately, the rest of the night past without any bodily injury. Her bones weary and her mind fraying at the edges, MJ all but threw her burgundy apron off and left the cafe without a word to her coworkers. She’d pay for it with a talk about attitude adjustment the next day—but she didn’t care. She was free of the constant reminder that her dreams were still out of reach—and now she could focus entirely on what mattered.  
  
As she hurried across the street to walk the two blocks towards the subway, she checked her phone. Just seeing text input by Peter’s fingers was enough to drive off the clawing madness of her futile job. At least it was towards the beginning of the thread; the further along she got, the more bitter disappointment filled her, until she wanted to stab a cigarette into the eye of the nearest plastic Frosty the Snowman:  
  
_—knock ‘em dead, gorgeous red. I’ll be waiting here with bells on_  
—but don’t actually knock anyone dead...  
—not that I think you’re violent or anything!  
—I’m just gonna shut up and say I love you  
—I really do love you though  
—can’t wait til you get home ;) Got a surprise for you  
  
And then, there was the final string of messages:  
  
_—shit, MJ, there’s something going down in Southport_  
—I won’t be long  
—I’ll try to be back when you get home  
—I love you  
  
Mary Jane tried not to let the disappointment eat away at her. She knew that Peter didn’t like it any more than she did—this need to bend to the cry of justice. But why, she wondered as she sleepwalked into the arriving subway car—did he have to answer it today? Not only was it nearly Christmas—something she suddenly found herself caring about despite her bah humbug mood back at the cafe—but she’d had such a miserable string of days. Peter was always the rock she stretched out on after hours of being beaten by unfriendly oceans. She served the same purpose for him, which was one of the innumerable reasons why they worked as a couple.  
  
It was their first Christmas together, and although MJ knew the odds of either of them spending it alone were slim to none—Peter didn’t give Spider-Man quite that much leeway after all—the gradual decline of the last several days made it nearly impossible for her to think positively. She didn’t even have it in her to be angry—she simply hung her head as the train trundled off, feeling like the world’s saddest Christmas song.  
  
Biting wind blew up from the Atlantic Ocean and the Hudson River; MJ pulled her jacket tighter around her as she disembarked at Chelsea. Despite being in the same city, the area was a world away from Broadway—from the thing she’d cherished in her heart since she was a child. Peter made that dream seem attainable—he’d run lines with her, often at the expense of his dignity; he swing her to audition after audition and pick her up every time she felt her breakable threads threaten to snap.  
  
Tonight, looking at the excited faces of children, parents, happy couples and even the hobos on the streets, Mary Jane needed Peter; and because of her soul-sucking McJob, and Spider-Man, he wasn’t there.  
  
Everything in their apartment building screamed Christmas—in fact, it practically opened her eyes and ears and forced Christmas on her. She could hear Sinatra and Crosby playing from at least three different doors on her floor; there were wreaths everywhere, along with a toothsome smell of sugar cookies. That smell more than anything all but triggered MJ, taking her back to the sickly sweet confectionary aroma of the cafe.  
  
Any other given night and she’d release her mounting stresses with Peter—either having a long, hot shower with him, or just watching some dumb Netflix marathon, or having a nice sit-in dinner...or sex.  
  
But again, he wasn’t home; and MJ knew that depending on what was going down in Southport, he could be hours in getting back.  
  
She unlocked the door to their apartment and stepped into near-darkness. MJ paused, closing and locking the door behind her. The skinny Christmas tree in the living room at the end of the hall was alight, along with the white Christmas lights strung along the entertainment shelf. Just enough light was being shed by the festive glow to show MJ that there was something on the floor almost directly in front of her.  
  
Frowning, she kicked off her boots, shrugged her layers off and hung them up in the coat closet. Only then did she bend down and pick up what she soon discovered to be a Polaroid snapshot.  
  
MJ’s initial reaction was one of immense confusion. Certainly she knew that Peter had an old Polaroid among his collection of many funky gadgets. She just hadn’t known that the vintage piece of nostalgic photography equipment worked, or that appropriate film was still being sold for it.  
  
Work, evidently, it did; the picture MJ held was one of Peter, in this hallway. He’d pointed the camera at his face, grinning that goofy grin of his. A Santa Claus hat was perched on his head, the bauble end of it hanging to one side of his face.  
  
MJ chuckled softly at the sight of the photograph. He was so damn adorable and weird; so smart and caring...she’d lucked out and then some with him. They’d both seen through each other without meaning to—she through his disguise, and he through all the walls she’d tried to construct. They’d both been touched by tragedy—lost the same person, in fact—and yet they’d found their strength together. Even though this was only a Polaroid picture, tonight it meant as much to Mary Jane as five golden rings and a partridge in a pear tree.  
  
Out of mere curiosity she turned the Polaroid over. To her surprise there was an arrow drawn on the blank white space in black marker. It pointed straight ahead—down the hall.  
  
MJ walked the length of the dim hallway and came upon yet another square piece of Polaroid. She picked it up, turned it over, and her lips curled in a grin.  
  
Peter held the camera in one hand, once again facing himself. This time, however, MJ could see his face and his entire upper body...all of his upper body. He’d lifted his baggy white t-shirt to his chin, showing off the bare, wiry strength of his chest and abs. There was a mischievous glint in his puppy dog eyes, one that usually preceded a heavy make out session whenever they were both together.  
  
MJ checked the back of the second Polaroid. This arrow pointed to the left, down the side hallway that led to their bedroom. MJ walked down the floor and, sure enough, found a third Polaroid just outside their bedroom door. Once again, she picked it up.  
  
Heat shot through her body with the suddenness of a lightning bolt. She bit her lip, hunger building in her like that of a starving vampire.  
  
Peter was holding the camera down in the photo, offering a full view of his briefs, and the hard outline of his cock contained by the white fabric. His free hand was gripping the length of it through the material. MJ licked her lips, staring at the mouthwatering sight for several seconds longer than the other two. Then, finding that the arrow drawn on the back of this Polaroid pointed at the closed bedroom door, MJ pushed her way into hers and Peter’s room, the three photos gripped in her hand.  
  
The room, as she expected, was empty and dark. She could smell something in the air that only served to heighten the heat of arousal gathering in her—a faint smell of sweat and skin and something more.  
  
Peter had left a flash drive on the bed, a small, plastic adhesive gift bow stuck to it. MJ didn’t need to stretch her imagination to know what she had to do next: she took the flash drive and plugged it into the USB port of the fifty-inch monitor on the dresser. Cross-legged, she sat in the middle of the bed, and pressed play on the one an only clip in the file.  
  
The video started with Peter occupying the very bed where Mary Jane sat. He was completely naked, the Santa Claus hat that had once occupied his head now covering his groin. He smiled at the camera, and Mary Jane felt as if this digital image could see the lust in her eyes.  
  
“Hey baby,” he said. “I was hoping to be here in person but, well—you might have got my the memo on that. I hope this makes it up to you a little.”  
  
“Fuck yes it does, tiger,” MJ breathed. Her skin felt aglow with the thrill of this, not only of seeing him so exposed, but that he’d done it for her.  
  
Peter’s cheeks were slightly red, which only struck Mary Jane as entirely adorable. He rubbed his palm over his abs, and let out a small laugh.  
  
“Can you tell I’ve never done anything like this before?” He swallowed, looked into the camera lens, and said, “If I were there with you...I’d come up behind you wearing this and only this.”  
  
MJ shivered, her chest rising and falling heavily as she watched Peter’s erotic display.  
  
“I’d put my arms around you...drag my hands slowly up to your breasts...” As if in demonstration, Peter slid his hands up to his own nipples; the muscles in his neck flexed.  
  
MJ bit her lip, practically feeling Peter’s hands on her body. She shrugged her sweater off, and threw the tank top she had on underneath into the corner.  
  
“You’d squirm for me, and...rock into me...into this...” Peter plucked the festive hat off his groin.  
  
MJ actually whimpered. Her own fingers slid under the waistband of her jeans as she took in the sight of Peter so hard and needing for her on camera.  
  
Through heavily lidded eyes, Peter looked down at his cock. He was as endowed as any other man, but to Mary Jane, he was perfect—the perfect length, the perfect girth...the perfect rosy head.  
  
“Want it so bad, baby,” he murmured. “Can’t you tell?”  
  
“Fuck yes,” MJ whispered. She crawled onto her knees and elbows, her fingers ghosting over slick heat, her palm brushing against her clit.  
  
Slowly, Peter dragged a fingertip up the vein of his shaft to the rosy crown. He fondled his balls with his free hand, his whole face rife with mounting pleasure.  
  
“Would you touch me like this, MJ?” Peter rasped. He stroked, slow and strong, the sound of his skin making MJ grind harder against the pluming friction of her own hand. “Bet you would,” Peter said. “Nice and long and slow.”  
  
“Faster,” Mary Jane hissed, as if he could hear her. But it was telling of how well she knew Peter’s body—how much she understood the subtlest telltale sign—that he seemingly complied with her request a moment later. His strokes grew fevered; MJ licked her lips as clear fluid blossomed at the head of Peter’s cock. She slid one dexterous finger between her lips, making love to her own hand there on the sheets.  
  
“You’d be...so wet for me...” Peter all but sighed. “Wouldn’t ever drag it out or anything...just pick you up and feel you slide down me...down my dick—ah, fuck.”

“Fuck!”  
  
Both MJ and Peter moaned the words at the same time. Through the dense foliage of this jungle of lust, Mary Jane felt a momentary shot of cognitive thought—that she and Peter had both felt the same tremor of need, and uttered that filthy sweet word at the same time, was telling of something altogether wonderful.  
  
Her hair fell around her face in a mass of red. She kept her eyes on the screen, rocking into her fingers, her own slick, wetness coating her hand as she continued to love herself the way she wished he were loving her right now. Even though her own touch was sufficiently searing, it was a poor substitute for that beautiful, steely-hard cock; she needed him here, but as this was all she had, she was going to appreciate it to its full advantage.  
  
Her thumb tweaked the bundle of nerves over her pussy; on the screen, Peter slid one slender finger under his tightening sac, and spread his legs.  
  
Mary Jane smirked. Brainy and kind as he was, Peter could be so fucking filthy when he wanted to—an adolescence with nothing but porn having cultivated his imagination in ways that outstripped hers some times. He teased his hole, his middle finger sliding through the tense circle of muscle a split-second later.  
  
Peter’s balls twitched as he pumped his shaft with one hand and teased his hole with the finger of the other. “Fuck, baby…never felt this tight before...God, MJ, I want you so bad...wanna sink my cock into that pretty pink pussy...  
  
“Ah, Peter,” MJ moaned. A second finger teased her soaking lips; her back arched. She felt something careen through that tangled forest of lust and desire; her limbs were growing weak even as her muscles coiled with all the strength of a lioness.  
  
“Gonna come like this, baby. Gonna come for you. Fuck, I wish I was with you so bad...wish I could, mph—make you—ah—feel every last—fuck—hot drop—ah, MJ, oh fuck yes!”  
  
He came first—she wasn’t one of those people who sought mutual orgasm the way it was always depicted in erotic fiction. Just seeing him, his strong body tensing, his cock spurting forth line after line of hot, white cum, drove MJ to a frenzy. He was backed up—that much was evident from how much seed his cockhead spurted. His abs, chest and neck were coated in messy hot white jizz when he finally came down from the ferocity of his orgasm.  
  
A noise like a whimper escaped Peter’s lips; he swiped a hand through the mess on his body, covering his fingers in his own sticky mess. Eyes on the camera lens, he licked his essence off his fingers.  
  
The racing beast pounced; every last part of MJ forgot herself as her body, mind and spirit shot through to a place of pure bliss. Her wet heat coated her fingers; she collapsed face-first onto the mattress, breathing in the smell of her own sex and sweat.  
  
“MJ...” Peter sighed. This was just an image, again, but she could practically feel his need.  
  
“Oh, fuck tiger,” MJ said with half a lazy laugh. She looked at the screen again, her hair half-obscuring her vision. He was still stretched on this very bed—the place he’d done this likely less than an hour beforehand.  
  
Peter smiled at the camera. Then he sighed, crawled across the sheet, and shut the camera off. The screen turned blue, leaving MJ in its electric glow for a moment.  
  
Spread out on the bed, she felt like an utter mess. She came down from the bliss of her body slowly, like a snowflake gliding from the sky to the cold, hard earth. Weary in that magical way that followed a powerful release, she supposed that only thing to be done was to shower and sleep…and wait for Peter to come home.  
  
MJ froze in the act of sitting up, struck by the sudden, frightening sense that she was no longer along in the room.  
  
Before she could spring to some kind of response, she felt two strong arms grab her by the shoulders, pick her up and crush her backwards into a strong body.  
  
All panic dissolved as she felt him, smelled his skin and sweat. He was still in his costume, which did nothing to hide the hardness pressing into the back of MJ’s ass.  
  
He pressed his lips to her ear.  
  
“Southport was a false alarm,” Peter whispered, his voice dark and raspy with the promise of what he was going to show her now he had her.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing about these two so much sometimes.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
